December 3, 2053
Snow hasn't yet blanketed the pavement, but the city's put down a sprinkle of rock salt, just in case. It's a good thing, because Maria can maneuver herself more safely – not that she can't take care of herself. She's had her prosthetic almost all her life. Maria can be proud, as a consequence, but she's also got lips as smooth as silk and a voice that rivals her own. So, while Cherie waits for Maria to come in for their daily coffee date, she orders a grande mocha latte and a grande hazelnut soy latte and watches a few teeny-tiny ice pellets swirl over the frosted window.
You can set a clock by them. Kelly, from behind the counter, jumps up as soon as the two sweet elderly men bob into sight. There's two cups in a carry-out tray, waiting by the cash register, and it's this that Kelly carefully takes up and carries outside.
The men settle on a bench. It's always the same bench. Cherie can't see much of them, since they're wearing caps and warm woolen coats, but she thinks she can see a peep of a bright blue plaid bowtie under a gray felt fedora and a newsboy cap trimmed with a glittering snowflake pin. Cherie's never heard them speak, but she feels that their eyes are twinkling as they look at each other, and a memory's sparking between them as they talk: something bright, something strong.
They were holding hands, red woolen gloves interlacing tightly with smart black leather. Bowtie looks up at Kelly and blinks, like he's pushing away a reverie. Snowflake fumbles in his pockets, and Bowtie pats his arm as Snowflake's lips move; he's counting out the cash. They take their coffees. Kelly takes the money, and the two men hold their drinks, gingerly, in both hands, and take tiny sips from the rim. Kelly's already been forgotten, and a bank of sharply chilly air splits the snug warmth of the Lima Bean.
Cherie sighs. Maria's actually really late. Cherie starts worrying, and then calling every number she can find. She leaves message after message. So, naturally, Cherie doesn't notice the pair of loafers that followed Kelly's boots inside, nor does she notice the loafers stop and wait by her table until she finally looks up, wild-eyed.
"Are you all right, miss?" Bowtie asks. His voice is a little raspy, but his hazel-green-gold eyes glimmer at her in the lights.
"My girlfriend's usually not this late," Cherie frets. "She has a prosthetic – I'm scared that she's somewhere I can't reach her."
It seems very strange to talk like this to, well, a stranger, but Bowtie is so concerned that Cherie doesn't feel like it's an intrusion. It's a simple passage between two human beings, two people with no boundaries in this single piercing shard of time, and both Cherie and Bowtie know it.
Bowtie demurs a little. "She looks very strong," he says, with a little bob of his head. "But you ought to know – you belong to her, don't you? It's like you've always known her, and you knew it when you met."
"Yes," Cherie whispers. It feels like heartbreak, or maybe that's how it feels when you realize a truth you can't live without. "I do. I think I do. I just can't help – worrying."
"I know belonging when I see it," Bowtie says softly, "Kurt and I have belonged to each other for as long as we remember. We've had love, children, grandchildren, everything together." Bowtie waves his fingers, and Kurt touches his lips to his own. Kurt's smile is kind, too. "She'll come," Bowtie repeats. "She will. In the meantime, I've got to get some sugar. Ah, Kelly, thank you. See? Here she is."
Maria's wrapped round in a pink scarf and an apologetic smile. Before Bowtie goes to open the door, he ducks his head towards Cherie, one more time. "Don't forget to tell her you belong. Tell her we'd know."